


Strangers

by snowhoe



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Don’t Know How To Describe It Just Read, Fluff, M/M, We don’t care about that hoe here, during eighth year, idk i feel like this should be a new breed called “fwoosh” where it’s words that end up somewhere, really just a self-indulgent fic, the humdrum just??? isn’t mentioned???
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:53:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24248368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowhoe/pseuds/snowhoe
Summary: Both the truth and the lie exhausted him. “Can we forget?”Simon tilted his head in what was single-handedly the most adorable thing Baz had ever seen. “Er..what?”Baz got up and crossed the room to Simon. “Can we just forget our history and, for one night, be strangers?”
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 16
Kudos: 99





	Strangers

**Author's Note:**

> i, for some reason, had fun writing this!!! honestly, i just came up with the dialogue in the summary and was like “hey stupid-head now write a whole fic surrounding those ten words” and then i did. no one has read this but me, so i apologize for my spelling/grammar mistakes, but whatcha gonna do abt it?
> 
> i hope u like

**Baz**

  
It was the last day at Watford for the eighth years, and the day was both anticipated and dreaded. Anticipated because, well, school was over and that was an arguably spectacular thing; and dreaded because it was the start of a new age, and that was scary to most. 

Baz, however, was feeling more than dreadful, he was feeling quite nervous. He didn’t want to leave Simon and his feelings behind, no matter how gruesome they were, he prided himself on how he felt. It was the only thing that made him feel utterly human, so completely real that there was no denying the possibility that he wasn’t.

Leaving Watford meant leaving Simon—until the Big Showdown, he assumed. There was no doubt in his mind that he would hold onto Simon until the day he died, but he didn’t know how much it would mellow out, and would he have regrets of not acting on it? 

The simple answer was: yes, he would regret it. Who wouldn’t? Simon Snow was this bottomless pit that Baz would be falling down forever, even if he caught a branch, he would still be stuck nonetheless. Perhaps he’d been trapped the moment his eyes fell upon the mural of freckles and carefree smile. 

Baz really didn’t want to forget Simon’s light snores, the way his eyes got an inch wider when he got furious, the way he left toothpaste all over the sink. It’s the most mundane things that everyone forgets to savor, but are, possibly, the most valuable. 

Who needed diamonds when you had a cheap plastic ring you got out of a toy machine that held  _ memories.  _

Simon and Baz had memories, but not good enough ones. And Baz didn’t want to leave like that.

**Simon**

It was technically the last day at Watford. There was a tunnel of emotion in Simon’s brain—worry, guilt, excitement, all leading to one emotion: fear. 

For Simon, the world was definitely not an oyster. Unless it was a super big oyster trying to bite his head off. The world was more like a maze with no exit. There he was, plopped somewhere near the middle, lost and confused, looking for a way out when there was none. He would twist and turn and at every corner there would be another monster trying to kill him. 

Baz was somewhere in the maze, too. Never being able to land a blow, Simon would see him and run. But it was a maze with no exits, and they were trapped together.

All Simon wanted was a normal life. With magic, but normal. He didn’t want to be the Chosen One, he wanted to have a life with more than one friend and, definitely, less than one enemy. The only thing Simon wanted to attack was food. (Technically, half the monsters he killed could be food, but Simon was certainly not counting those.)

Simon could tell Baz wasn’t asleep. He assumed it was also Pre-Grad Gitters. What else would it be? Simon looked at the clock. 2:46 A.M., it read. Death was more inevitable than sleep that night. 

“Baz,” Simon whispered into what seemed like an abyss. 

He knew Baz was up. If Baz was a subject, Simon would pass with flying colors. Even without intensely magnifying vampire ears, he could tell Baz was awake. 

It took him a moment to answer, though, despite having completely heard it. Those tense seconds were full of heartbeats and lip-biting. 

When he did answer, he said a simple, “Snow,” which infuriated Simon.  _ Stupid Baz being bloody stupid and never calling me my name. Stupid, stupid, stupid. _

Simon didn’t care about that. At least not at that moment, not when his emotions were an avalanche with too much  _ Snow. _

“Am I ever going to see you again?”

Being vulnerable was always a thing Simon seemed to be. Whether he was pulling his hair over a math problem or going off, he was always emotional. Unlike Baz who’s always so controlled and meticulous in everything he does. Sometimes Simon wished he could do that, but then he realized that no one would ever know him, and that scared him more than the thought of people knowing him. 

He didn’t know Baz at all. Not really. Part of him wanted to, part of him wanted to spit in Baz’s face. Simon was anything but decisive.

“When I off you, probably,” Baz said, withholding it’s usual snarl. Simon rolled his eyes at that, then realized this wasn’t how he wanted to end things with Baz.

He chucked instead and said, “Yeah, probably.”

Mulling it over, Baz took the bait from the hook of conversation. “Do you want to see me after this, after our history, Snow?”

To Simon, Baz sounded almost tired, almost hopeful, almost...Simon didn’t know, real? Baz and he were too afraid to touch it seemed—not physically, they did that plenty, but afraid to reveal themselves to each other. It was like a constant masquerade ball with one person, and instead of broken-in-shoes you end up with bloody knuckles. 

Simon was tired too.

“Yes. No. I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“Yes.” Simon replied. He didn’t know, and that was the truth. “Yes” and “No” were too limited in their answers. If he thought about the time Baz pushed him, the time Baz set the chimera on him, or, even, all the times Baz sneered at him, then the answer would be no. However, if he thought about the moments Baz let his hairs down and laughed, the moments Baz would forget to gel his hair back, or, even, the moments Baz would say something not mean, then the answer would be yes. “How about you, then, would you want to see me?”

Baz was quiet for a good five minutes. And Simon would know, he kept checking the clock every ten seconds. He spoke, close to mouthed, a hoarse, “Maybe.”

_ Well. I don’t know what to say to that. _

“When,” Simon decided that Baz was messing with him, “you finally kill me, I assume.”

“No.”

_ No? _ Simon looked over to Baz. It was all too dark, so he got up and turned on the lights. He was waiting for Baz to come up with some insult on how “It would be so much easier if you used your magic, Snow” but he never did. 

Baz did say, “Some people are trying to sleep, imbecile,” again, with no bite. Everything was stranger at night, it seemed, and so was Baz. This Nighttime Baz was almost nice. 

Simon, sat leaning against the desk (for the last time ever), crossed his arms while Baz sat up. “You want to see me?” he said, grin forming on his face.

“No, Snow, I want you to be stabbed with a giant fork so you can understand how food feels around you,” he said, unamused.

Simon laughed, despite himself. “Does that mean someone’s going to eat me?”

Baz’s eyes widened slightly, and Simon didn’t know what that meant. 

**Baz**

_ Did Simon “Chosen One” Snow just make a sexual innuendo? _ Baz thought. His brain was exploding from this one conversation, if you could even call it that. It was more of a fight without insults and the actual fighting.

Baz decided that he was going to be as honest as he could. If that meant embarrassment—well, maybe he would like to keep his dignity, but he would try. 

The fight without insults and actual fighting lulled for a second before Simon said, “Why do you hate me?”

Baz didn’t know how anyone could hate Simon, especially him. The one thought running through his brain then was:  _ Wow, Simon looks fit _ , which doesn’t seem like hate. 

Truth was, Baz was ashamed of the answer. He hated Simon because he couldn’t have him. He hated Simon because he was supposed to. He hated Simon because he didn’t. It was all very pathetic and full of half-arsed excuses. 

Baz didn’t want to tell him why he hated him or, really, why he didn’t. 

Both the truth and the lie exhausted him. “Can we forget?”

Simon tilted his head in what was single-handedly the most adorable thing Baz had ever seen. “Er..what?”

Baz got up and crossed the room to Simon. “Can we just forget our history and, for one night, be strangers?”

He scoffed, “That’s a bit of a hard task, is it not?”

Baz turned around, hurt. “Well, fine. Why did you even wake me up, you-”

“I didn’t say it was impossible,” Simon said, seizing Baz’s wrist. They looked at each other for what seemed like forever. “So, uh,” Simon held out his hand and smiled, “I’m Simon Snow.”

_ I know. I think I’d know even if the world was on fire and the stars fell, and I had never met you.  _

But he wasn’t supposed to know now. In his expensive pajamas and Simon in his ratty ones, Baz took Simon’s hand. They were no longer Simon and Baz, Hero and Villain; they were two strangers. “I’m Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch.”

Simon broke into laughter and dropped Baz’s hand from his. “I’m sorry, you’re what?”

“You said your full name so I felt like I had to, numpty!”

“Hey, hey, hey. Strangers, remember? Strangers don’t antagonize off the bat.”

“Unless they’re us.”

Simon smiled. “Unless they’re us.”

**Simon**

“What did you have in mind doing? It’s,” he glanced at the clock, “three thirty. At night.”

“Magic carpet ride?”

“We just met. I’m not going on a magic carpet ride with someone I don’t know.”

Baz laughed, and Simon wanted it to never end. “That’s smart, Snow.”

“Woah, I think you’d better call me Simon. It was your idea to be strangers, play the part.”

Baz held his ground. “But I could be a stranger and call you that. You did just tell me your last name.”

“Nope. Call me Simon or I’m going to bed.”

“Fine,” Baz both looked and sounded in pain, “Simon.”

Simon smiles as wide as he could, surprisingly not playing it up. Baz almost had a smile himself, Simon swore, but he turned towards his bed before he could process it. “I have a record player, actually. We could play music.”

“And wake all of Watford up?” Simon kicked himself off the desk, heading for Baz’s bed. “I’m down.”

Baz crouched down before his bed, layed down, and started reaching under it. His butt was up in the air. Suddenly, Simon had the need to examine the cloth of his shirt. “Where...where did you get the record player?”

“Twelfth birthday. I didn’t really have a need for it at home, not wanting to have my family know my music choices, so I brought it here. Don’t know why, I’ve probably used it once.”

“Why didn’t you want your family to know your music choices?”

Baz took his head out from under the bed and side-eyed Simon. “I was thirteen and hated the world, why would I have?”

Simon didn’t actually know what that felt like. To have people to keep things from. Yes, he had Penny and, well, Penny, but he didn’t actually mind sharing everything with her. It’s not like she didn’t read his mind already. But having a family? Simon would want to cherish that and hold onto it. Not push it away.

Baz stuck his head back under and said, “Aha! Got it.”

“What music do you have,” Simon asked as Baz stood up. Suddenly he stopped. 

“Actually, nevermind. Maybe we should do something else. This is probably boring anyways.”

“No, I like to dance.”

Baz’s eyebrow lifted. “You can dance?”

“Well, no. But I like to.” They were completely different things, and as far as Simon knew, you only needed one to dance. “Wait, don’t change the subject. What kind of music do you have?”

Baz pulled out the vinyls, head down, and handed them to Simon. And he burst out laughing, again, once he read it. “I would’ve kept this hidden too, Merlin, Celine Dion?”

“My aunt Fiona bought it for me as a gag. I just never bought a different one.”

“Because you like this one?”

Baz didn’t answer. Simon laughed again. Ripping the record from Simon’s hand, Baz looked dejected. “What are you doing? I want to listen to Celine Dion with a total stranger.”

**Baz**

Hell. That’s how Baz would describe listening to Celine Dion with Simon Snow, apparent stranger but love of his life, at three forty-five in the morning. 

The problem was that every single word in the songs Baz could use to describe Simon and his feelings for him. 

The first song came on and they sat on their respective beds. It was bearable, besides the fact that Celine Dion kept singing,  _ “You are the reason I wake up every day.”  _ Which was exactly what Simon did for Baz. 

The second song was better than the first, admittedly. The only thing was that the title was something Baz feared: immortality.

When the third song came on, Simon got up and danced. The song was faster, spunky, but Baz wanted to watch Simon. “Treat Her Like a Lady” wasn’t really advice Baz needed to hear, though. 

Simon was dancing in the middle of their room, hips swaying, arms thrashing, and he looked beautiful.  _ This was a bad idea, _ Baz thought as he watched him. Either Simon didn’t know Baz was looking or didn’t care, but Baz certainly wasn’t hiding it. 

And because Baz liked to ruin things, he called over the music, “You should take her advice! For Agatha!”

Simon stopped, he was facing the door and not Baz, holding his arms above his head. Keeping everything but his head in place, Simon peeked his head over his shoulder and said, “Who’s Agatha?”

It was so unexpected that Baz let his guard down and laughed.  _ Really  _ laughed. When Baz looked at Simon, he was already looking back.

The fourth song, “Why O Why,” was definitely a low point in Baz’s life. He may have told Simon that he listened to the record once, but if he knew Simon wouldn’t be in the room, he would play it. This song 

“ _ My O my / When I saw you with the other girl” _

Simon was now swaying back and forth and slowly spinning. He had his eyes closed and looked so—so calm, so un-Simon, but still so beautiful.

The fifth song came on, Simon kept dancing until it faded out and the sixth song came on. 

It was slow, very slow. Almost like he knew Baz cried about him to this song, Simon came and sat next to Baz on the bed.

_ “Tell him / Tell him that the sun and moon / Rise in his eyes / Reach out to him” _

“I like being strangers with you,” Simon spoke, sounding genuine. Baz was on the brink of tears, but that didn’t matter.

“Likewise, Simon.”

They sat like that listening to the seventh, eight, ninth, tenth, eleventh…

When the Simon recognized the one Celine Dion song he knew, he jumped to his feet. “I know this one!”

“It is her most well-known song.”

“Oh, shush.” Simon looked around the room, and Baz didn’t know if his heart would go on. Everything about Simon was dangerous—his boiling magic, his charming good looks, the way he makes Baz feel. The most disheartening thing about loving him was knowing that it was never going to stop. Always and forever, Baz would love Simon, and that had to be okay. Or else the world may as well end. 

“Do you wanna, er, dance?” Simon asked with an outstretched hand.

The only thing stopping Baz from screaming was his stunned silence. “You wanna dance with me? Why?”

“Well, it’s the thing to do, right? Besides, it would be a missed opportunity to not ask.” Baz did not know what he meant by that, and he didn’t know if his heart would survive knowing. 

Instead of asking, he put his hand in Simon’s once again. He hauled Baz up to his feet with ease, and then they were just standing, holding hands. Baz waited for something, anything to happen. For Simon to lead ( _ he initiated it, so why do I have to lead? _ ), for one of them to  _ goddamn move _ , but they didn’t.

Until, that is, Simon looked down and coughed, saying, “Can’t dance, remember?”

Baz grinned, “Thought you only needed enthusiasm to dance.”

“Git.”

“Tosser.”

They stared at each other, then Baz realized that he was holding the  _ love of his life’s _ hand, so he brought it up between themselves. “Put your other hand on my shoulder.”

Simon put his hand on Baz’s shoulder, and Baz put his on Simon’s waist. He tried to be delicate, tried to not touch him too much. If he did, who knows what would happen. Burn scars, no doubt. 

They weren’t really dancing, either. They were just swaying, breathing each other’s air, co-existing so closely without hurting each other. It was purely euphoric.  _ Drugs have nothing on this,  _ Baz thought. 

_ “And you’re here in my heart / And my heart will go on and on” _

**Simon**

As the song faded, they meshed into one. Simon didn’t know how or why or when, but they moved closer and closer to each other until Baz’s lips ghosted over his. 

The song ended, and they stayed like that. Somewhere in the in-between, both of Simon’s arms tangled around Baz’s shoulders, and Baz’s around Simon’s hips. Their chests were touching; Simon could  _ feel  _ Baz’s heartbeat. Both their eyes were hooded, neither were looking but neither were not. Their every move was filled with want.

Then Simon took the plunge. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> uh yeah it- yeah. 
> 
> :) read in other lands


End file.
